In My Cabin
The only sound I hear again: my typewriting, scribbling out excuses for me because Logic is gone and The Reason is leaving. Steaming up behind the abandoned lot, ready to blow.
Everything
else; Just ghosts and whispers.
Each time growing louder and so silent to my pleas.
Please? No.
Each time growing louder and so silent to my pleas.
Please? No.
The walls
scream, “never never” and the typing won’t stop rocking you back and forth
like the white wash, cloth against skin, of the bruised, the used, the weak, the sorry and the not good enough.
Leave the lost.
Leave the left.
Leave or love.
like the white wash, cloth against skin, of the bruised, the used, the weak, the sorry and the not good enough.
Leave the lost.
Leave the left.
Leave or love.
“I’m sorry.”
What did you say?
What did you say?
My mind won
and the thoughts took over.
All I can
hear is that typewriting: I think I’ll stay and you should leave.
Call Me
Vincent
I’m going to send you my ear,
because I’m crazy,
and you’re a whore.
Now it only
seems fair, if you’d like,
that I make you my whore
underneath this starry night.
that I make you my whore
underneath this starry night.
Well, perhaps
I could, in the night café
date you properly; I want to make you stay.
By my side and beneath the olive trees
so I can decorate your body with paints and leaves
date you properly; I want to make you stay.
By my side and beneath the olive trees
so I can decorate your body with paints and leaves
Now in the
bedroom we can hide
until we find my misplaced mind.
We can search but I will wait for the day,
you hold me and whisper, “I like you better this way.”
I will give to you
my vase with honesty,
as I whisper confessingly:
until we find my misplaced mind.
We can search but I will wait for the day,
you hold me and whisper, “I like you better this way.”
I will give to you
my vase with honesty,
as I whisper confessingly:
I gave you
twelve sunflowers
one for each time
you helped me, my darling, in losing my mind.
Sidewalks
It always hurts when
I can type faster than I can think
and my hands freeze, with nothing to say
hurts when
I can think faster than I can speak
and I cry
It hurts when I
hurt you like you asked to be
hurt but I still
hurt you all wrong
I should fill with joy;
I'm only human.
A human?
who doesn't feel
that rush and pain
when they think
its just one step
as cars whiz by?
I hurt when
I let you down.
I am not you
and therefore I do not love
the most
and I leave you out to dry
and I leave you asking
begging, screaming
because I am silent.
Knowing what I could say,
but having lost all desire
to comfort you
and to say the right thing
when it means
nothing
It fucking hurts
that I don't feel the pain
that the hurt
doesn't hurt me
(just you)
anymore.
Bowling
Eat up the smoke,
but don't hope
to ever breathe the same again,
not after the way you made
the night taste.
It tasted like beauty, the kind that makes hearts race.
And it’s only fair that you know,
I’m always looking when you don’t come back.
We should close our eyes,
turn around and run.
Or let's start again.
I need to tell you the whole story:
The beginning is true, or I heard it somewhere and believed it.
That's what truth is:
the words we believe harder than we hate ourselves.
The whole story makes me hate myself
more than I can believe in any words, so I don't speak.
Won't you just see through me?
Fill in the blanks instead of waiting.
You could be waiting forever.
Which is exactly how long I could sit here.
Because I used to count my time in cigarettes.
Now I'll count it in moons,
and you will never stay for the sun.
I’m all wrong in daylight.
But I like the way your words see me in the moonlight.
And I wouldn't change that for all the normal in the world.
That's just not me.
And hopefully not you either.
Now there is light in the sky,
and we must run.
Alone with the happiness we fight all night.
Here comes the sun.
one for each time
you helped me, my darling, in losing my mind.
Sidewalks
It always hurts when
I can type faster than I can think
and my hands freeze, with nothing to say
hurts when
I can think faster than I can speak
and I cry
It hurts when I
hurt you like you asked to be
hurt but I still
hurt you all wrong
I should fill with joy;
I'm only human.
A human?
who doesn't feel
that rush and pain
when they think
its just one step
as cars whiz by?
I hurt when
I let you down.
I am not you
and therefore I do not love
the most
and I leave you out to dry
and I leave you asking
begging, screaming
because I am silent.
Knowing what I could say,
but having lost all desire
to comfort you
and to say the right thing
when it means
nothing
It fucking hurts
that I don't feel the pain
that the hurt
doesn't hurt me
(just you)
anymore.
The Sunshine of the Moon
I could paint your whole body
I could paint your whole body
With yellow highlighter,
make sure you always stand out.
Though I'm not sure;
I shouldn't want the whole world
that aware. They shouldn't see you
like I feel you.
I could dress you in beige
Lock you like a secret,
But I don't think
That could hardly be fair.
He'd like to paint your lips
a whore's red; tame you.
I'd rather share this popcorn
Lick salt from your lips
run my hands through your sea hair, down your back
till my hand fits, just right.
I've memorized your face,
your hips,
hoping you won't forget me.
And I could steal your keys
And I could make you stay
But I don't think
that could hardly be fair.
Still, it'd be nice to remain
in bed all day, I could make you.
Or I could leave, smoke on the porch, as you
make your escape and you'd
Never
have to see me
Again.
But my dear, I can't risk it
So I'll stay right here, because
my pillow smells like you, I can't lose the real thing.
So I'll keep you and maybe,
trace my fingers down your hip,
get out the yellow highlighter while you sleep.
I promise I'll never be fair.
Maybe
Have you ever finished a puzzle,
3000 pieces,
and it's a picture of a park?
There are swings and children playing,
and laughter and grass,
all of these little things.
Right near the edge,
(but not the actual edge, off to one side near the bottom)
there is a place for a piece.
One last piece.
You don't know what that piece would have.
Maybe some wind?
Or a blade of grass?
Nothing too important.
Regardless of its contents,
that singular piece is missing.
Not in the box,
on the table,
by the chair.
gone.
Have you ever finished a puzzle,
3000 pieces,
and it's a picture of a park?
There are swings and children playing,
and laughter and grass,
all of these little things.
Right near the edge,
(but not the actual edge, off to one side near the bottom)
there is a place for a piece.
One last piece.
You don't know what that piece would have.
Maybe some wind?
Or a blade of grass?
Nothing too important.
Regardless of its contents,
that singular piece is missing.
Not in the box,
on the table,
by the chair.
gone.
Maybe that piece is me.
Bowling
Eat up the smoke,
but don't hope
to ever breathe the same again,
not after the way you made
the night taste.
It tasted like beauty, the kind that makes hearts race.
And it’s only fair that you know,
I’m always looking when you don’t come back.
We should close our eyes,
turn around and run.
Or let's start again.
I need to tell you the whole story:
The beginning is true, or I heard it somewhere and believed it.
That's what truth is:
the words we believe harder than we hate ourselves.
The whole story makes me hate myself
more than I can believe in any words, so I don't speak.
Won't you just see through me?
Fill in the blanks instead of waiting.
You could be waiting forever.
Which is exactly how long I could sit here.
Because I used to count my time in cigarettes.
Now I'll count it in moons,
and you will never stay for the sun.
I’m all wrong in daylight.
But I like the way your words see me in the moonlight.
And I wouldn't change that for all the normal in the world.
That's just not me.
And hopefully not you either.
Now there is light in the sky,
and we must run.
Alone with the happiness we fight all night.
Here comes the sun.
A washer woman’s wrists are worn down with strength.
They swell with success and determination.
The washer woman’s hands ache with years of giving in every direction except up.
These wrists ache, they shake, backing away from words like “can’t” because “never” isn’t an option, “no” is the wrong answer, and there is not enough time left for later.
Our washer woman, using those wrists, makes tomorrow today, makes it okay and smiles with pain, so you never see the ache.
But this washer woman’s wrist gives her away, her struggle hiding in the veins.
It’s strange she carries much too much in her bruised hands that carry the weary and what others drop.
When will this washer woman create her mirror from behind my eyes: see herself for herself, selfless, self-worth, the self-esteem to dream and change?
The bad has no place in her world, she carried too much in her washer woman’s wrists and must clutch the good before those wrists are fists with fight that drop the souls she stops from making her mistakes.
My washer woman wrists will split, break, bleed, before you can convince her to let down the world from her shoulders.
But washer woman, my hands are free to see, we all need a little help sometimes… even a washer woman with wrists so strong, they carried me, through so many tears and years and pain. So let me take yours for a while; it’s my turn.
Give me those wrists, you’re my washer woman.
It scares me when I feel this lonely.
It may be all that I can feel, this loneliness,and the fear that I get from thinking this way.I still have words left to say, but I may have finally figured out the power of silence.It’s a lesson that takes a lifetime of watching. I’ve watched empty houses full of the silence. I’ve slept on the cold floors of those empty houses;I know what it means to wait.Tonight is full of waiting. I want to walk away.That’s the question; I look to you for the answer, but you’re not there.
I’m going to run away from you and the feelings I don’t understand, the wanting answers, and the thought racing through me:
Maybe I’m becoming like you on that day.Maybe I’m becoming like you.Maybe. But I don’t have the gun.My hands are too strong to pull your trigger.Your hands must have been shaking that day;your eyes must have made tears.Your mind was made as neatly as your bed.You used that mind, all made up, to make sure you made sure that you made your heart as messy as your eyes.Please tell me your hands were shaking that day.
Tell me one more time what a promise is;tell me how you can still believe.Then tell me you’re sorry.You didn’t make me watch, but you had to know I’d see.I’d still like an apology even if it was my fault. The day before, I really wanted to be like you.That day, I really should have told you.Maybe you would’ve stuck around to show me how.Or you would’ve laughed and told me I should want something better.
The washer woman’s hands ache with years of giving in every direction except up.
These wrists ache, they shake, backing away from words like “can’t” because “never” isn’t an option, “no” is the wrong answer, and there is not enough time left for later.
Our washer woman, using those wrists, makes tomorrow today, makes it okay and smiles with pain, so you never see the ache.
But this washer woman’s wrist gives her away, her struggle hiding in the veins.
It’s strange she carries much too much in her bruised hands that carry the weary and what others drop.
When will this washer woman create her mirror from behind my eyes: see herself for herself, selfless, self-worth, the self-esteem to dream and change?
The bad has no place in her world, she carried too much in her washer woman’s wrists and must clutch the good before those wrists are fists with fight that drop the souls she stops from making her mistakes.
My washer woman wrists will split, break, bleed, before you can convince her to let down the world from her shoulders.
But washer woman, my hands are free to see, we all need a little help sometimes… even a washer woman with wrists so strong, they carried me, through so many tears and years and pain. So let me take yours for a while; it’s my turn.
Give me those wrists, you’re my washer woman.
It scares me when I feel this lonely.
I’m going to run away from you and the feelings I don’t understand, the wanting answers, and the thought racing through me:
Maybe I’m becoming like you on that day.Maybe I’m becoming like you.Maybe. But I don’t have the gun.My hands are too strong to pull your trigger.Your hands must have been shaking that day;your eyes must have made tears.Your mind was made as neatly as your bed.You used that mind, all made up, to make sure you made sure that you made your heart as messy as your eyes.Please tell me your hands were shaking that day.
Tell me one more time what a promise is;tell me how you can still believe.Then tell me you’re sorry.You didn’t make me watch, but you had to know I’d see.I’d still like an apology even if it was my fault. The day before, I really wanted to be like you.That day, I really should have told you.Maybe you would’ve stuck around to show me how.Or you would’ve laughed and told me I should want something better.
